


Your Words Burrow Into My Mind (Make Me Shake, Make Me Writhe)

by InsanelyYours96



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Basically just 3k of porn, Bottom Peter Hale, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Female Stiles Stilinski, Getting Together, M/M, Mentions of body dysmorphia, Non-Consensual Body Modification, PWP, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Stiles is mentally male but physically, no previously established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25370659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanelyYours96/pseuds/InsanelyYours96
Summary: Stiles would have preferred this happen when he was physically male, but Peter's question had triggered something in him.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 7
Kudos: 141





	Your Words Burrow Into My Mind (Make Me Shake, Make Me Writhe)

“What did you like?” Peter asked lightly. It was the past tense that got to Stiles, like he wasn’t still the same person now that he didn’t have a cock. 

"You want to know what I like?" Stiles hissed, turning to meet Peter with a frigid glare. The man went still against the headboard and seemed to be holding his breath, like he _knew_ that Stiles was a second away from tearing him apart.

“I _like_ stroking myself off to gay smut. Writing, usually, it’s hard to find porn to my tastes, and it always looks so much better in my head. This—” he slides his fingers down, over the trim of his panties, and Peter's eyes are riveted on the movement. “isn’t as satisfying. There’s no firm weight in my hand, no _friction_ because I get wet so quickly. Usually I like to go dry. I’m not a fan of lube, y’know, a little precome is enough. And the whole multiple orgasm thing I’ve got going for me now,” he scoffed, “as though I stopped at _one_ before?”

He pulled the waistband of the panties out, glancing down at his _lack of cock_ , and let them shut with a snap. He liked it, the hint of pain. Peter made a soft noise, eyes gone dark, and Stiles gave him back his attention.

“I like spilling, too, like the way my cock spurts when I come. If I’m doing laundry that day I’ll let go, let it get up to my chin. I love that—if I don’t have time for more I’ll just swallow it down and pretend it's someone else's. I don’t mind the taste. I _like_ my taste.”

Peter really did groan this time, a bitten off little thing. He was flushed and still, beginning to look a bit _desperate._ Stiles was getting hot, himself, but most of his focus was on the hardness he could see raising the sheets. He was _jealous_ of it. 

“Like I said, I don’t like lube, so I’ll use my spit or come to work one, maybe two fingers in. _Don’t touch, Peter._ ” Peter’s hand stills. He looks a bit confused at himself for following Stiles’ order, but mostly aroused.“I’m not being cruel, it’s only I don’t touch my cock either, not just then. I like to torture myself a little. Fuck my prostate, see how close I can get with just that.”

Peter’s mouth gapes open, his breathing clearly audible. Stiles finally moves from the edge of the bed to sit, holding his gaze, uncaring of the way he’s soaking through, getting the sheets wet. 

“I like being desperate, Peter, don’t you? You can turn over—” Peter doesn't look away from him once as he followed his offer, his _order,_ flipping onto his stomach, hips immediately pressing against the mattress, searching desperately for friction. “Yeah, that’s it. Just like that. Not enough, is it? I can go for hours like that—with or without my fingers in my ass. I don’t know your preference, but _with_ is so lovely.”

Peter huffs a small laugh and starts wiggling—pulls away the sheet, strips off his boxers—and then he’s completely exposed to Stiles, hard and dripping. Stiles licks his lips and Peter reaches out, intent. Stiles opens easily. The fingers press over his tongue, firm, and he hums. Sucks a bit, tongue moving to get them nice and wet. Like he does for himself, if he doesn’t have any come to use.

Peter whimpers, honest to go _whimpers_ , and Stiles moans around his fingers at the sound. It comes out wrong—high pitched in a way his husky voice isn’t—and he scowls, drawing back at the reminder. At what he _can’t, doesn’t, have._

“ _Stiles,_ ” Peter breathes, and Stiles comes back from his spiral of anger in time to see him bare down, pressing a single digit into his ass. Peter’s face twists in discomfort—hasn’t he ever?—and Stiles reaches out, stroking down his flank.

“Relax,” he soothes, “Breathe through it. Been a while?”

Peter jerks his head, maybe nodding, and Stiles hums. He watches the finger hungrily. He wants to join it—his hands are too _small,_ fingers too slim.

“I’m used to it. I love it, feeling full. The longest I’ve ever gone—” he doesn't bring up the Nogitsune, refuses to even think of it, “—’s probably a week, since I found out how _good_ it felt.”

“What about now?” Peter pants, rocking a bit on his finger. Testing the feeling, the stretch. Stiles’ face darkens, his nails digging into the bedding, and Peter makes a little sound, almost a whine. “I didn’t mean—” 

“You wanted to know what I _liked_ , Peter, so shut up and listen.” 

And Peter _does._ Stiles has never seen the man so obedient, and it twists something hot in his gut. He’s leaking through his panties, and Peter's nose keeps flaring as he _smells him_. He must know what it does to Stiles to see him like this, following his words, coming apart under them.

“Sometimes I do that—I fuck myself back onto my fingers—but only when I’m near my end, when I’ve gone for hours. When I’ve _broken._ Otherwise I thrust, curl in just right—” Peter moans, loud and shameless, and it seems he’s found his prostate, “ _Mmm,_ good, like that. When my arm gets sore I stop thrusting, just curl my fingers against it again and again. I won’t touch my cock, I just let it drip—it goes purple, eventually. Yours is pretty, nice and red—” Peter moans, even louder this time, pushing back onto his fingers and then down into the sheets. His cock is dripping against them, them and his stomach, a sticky mess that Stiles would love to lick up.

“Do you like that?” he smiles instead of doing so, voice gone breathy. “Like it when I compliment you?”

Peter twitches, eyes wary, but he doesn’t deny it. 

“I like that, too,” Stiles hums, still not touching, no matter how much he wants to reach out, lean _in._ He won’t ruin this, not with his weakened muscled, incorrectly portioned hands, any _hint_ beyond the ache in his panties that he isn’t a man, not at the moment. “That you’re still caustic. It wouldn’t be fun if it wasn’t _you,_ Peter.”

Another rush of precome dribbles out of Peter with a wet sound—he pushes in another finger, eyes dark and intense on Stiles, mouth gasping open, cheeks and nose flushed. 

“You’re so shameless—you can’t hold those little noises back, can you?”

“ _I’m_ the shameless one?” Peter laughs shortly, breaths still coming quick. “Can _you_?”

“Oh no,” Stiles grins back sharply, “I have the house to myself, usually, so I don’t bother to try. Sometimes I have to bite into my pillow, otherwise. Did you imagine I’d be anything _but_ vocal in bed?”

“On the contrary.”

Something about the exchange strikes Stiles as odd, and it takes him a moment to realize. “You’ve _imagined?_ ” His eyebrows rise.

Peter groans, fingers curling again, and meets Stiles’ eyes incredulously. “I’ve been flirting for years, Stiles. What do you think?”

Well. That was true, but.

Stiles shrugged it off. There were more important things to worry about, like the way Peter’s rhythm had picked up, the desperation with which he was grinding into the bed, now. “ _Slow down._ ”

He didn’t. If anything Peter went faster, fingers pounding into his hole, hips grinding filthily, generating wet, glorious little sounds. 

“Make... me...” he panted out, so low Stiles barely heard it.

If anybody asked later when Stiles lost control, it was in that moment. Peter had glanced up through his lashes, eyes gleaming a preternatural blue, face twisted in pleasure as his lips trembled. 

He surged forward, swinging a leg over Peter to straddle him, to pin him down. The hips beneath him bucked, tried to surge up, and Stiles bared down, one hand fisting into Peter’s hair, tugging in warning. He didn’t go for his neck—Stiles wasn’t _suicidal._

“You were being such a good little slut for me, Peter,” he breathed into his ear. Peter shivered violently, pressing back into Stiles again, as if searching for the press of his cock along his ass. _If only._ “Are you going to be obedient, hm? Going to do what I say?”

Peter twists, a bit, to meet Stiles’ eyes, wincing as it pulls at his hair. “That depends,” he presses out, wriggling impatiently. “What are you going to give me?”

 _My cock_ , Stiles wants to say, and Peter must see the way he hesitates, must see the way his expression shifts and falls, because he says, “ _Stiles,_ ” says it like he always has, like he _sees him,_ and Stiles—he can do one of two things. He can break down and cry—and god, he’s needed to for weeks—or he can take what Peter’s offering him. Take control.

His eyes burn. Peter, wet, dripping with arousal, hesitates, opens his mouth again, and Stiles _knows_ he’s going to do something stupid—offer to stop, say _sorry_ , ask if Stiles is okay—so Stiles shoves two fingers into his mouth. Black eyes rimmed in blue go wide in surprise. Watch him carefully, for a second, and then something in Peter’s face eases. He sucks the fingers down easily (would he choke on Stiles’ normal fingers, or be so graceful?) licking at the pads of his fingers, swallowing as the excess of saliva pools at the corners of his mouth. 

“That’s right,” Stiles murmurs, only half aware of even speaking. “You take it so well, Peter.” 

The vibration of a moan around his fingers, this time, and Stiles can’t help but grin at that. He _really_ likes making Peter moan, likes that he can do so with just his words. He worked Peter to this state just with the power of his mouth. He’s certain he could’ve taken it farther, that Peter would have already come if Stiles hadn’t stopped him, unwilling for this to end. Unwilling to let Peter find the satisfaction that had evaded him so _easily._

Stiles pulls back. Peter’s hand is still working his ass over frantically, and it must hurt by now, must be cramping in the awkward positions, even if he is a werewolf. Stiles hums, tugs at his wrist, and Peter lets him, shiny fingers falling free with a soft whine. There is no _squelch_ —Peter’s not wet enough for that, not with only saliva—and Stiles almost wants to change that. He’s never eaten a man out before, but he could do it so easily now.

He doesn’t. Stiles uses the fingers Peter had gotten so nicely wet for him and pushes two in. Peter’s ass clenches around him, unforgivingly hot, determined not to let him go. “Trying to draw me in?” Stiles half teases, half wonders, the thumb of his other hand rubbing soothing circles into his hip. He doesn’t wait for a response, just presses further, twisting and turning until he touches the little nub and Peter bucks under him. 

The friction is fantastic—Stiles wants something _in him_ , but it’s his pussy that’s aching, not his cock, and the distinction is enough to make him furious, to make him deny himself. Instead Stiles leans forward, lets his breast press against Peter’s back only because it’s the only way he can whisper in his ear. 

“You want some more, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart… sweetheart is what Peter calls the girls. What he calls Stiles, sometimes, but never since he changed.

Peter makes a small, weak sound in his throat, eyes flashing blue. “More,” he agrees. He could force Stiles off of him easily, could turn onto his back, take himself in hand, and have the orgasm he was so desperately chasing. But instead he was lying relatively compliant, letting Stiles use him, do as he wished. And he seemed to be _loving it._

Stiles longed for his cock. He wanted to finger Peter and jerk himself off at once. He wanted to keep Peter on the brink of orgasm while he painted his back and the parts of his face still visible with his release. 

The thought made Stiles pound into Peter harder, open palm slapping his ass each time he pressed all the way in, hitting his prostate relentlessly. 

“S-Stiles—” Peter gasped out, and then he came. He came without even touching himself, without being let to writhe against the blankets. _God_ , it was hot. It took a lot for Stiles to come without stimulating himself directly, and the idea that he’d done enough for Peter to just _explode…_

There was a moment of relative quiet where Peter panted, struggling to catch his breath, and the hand Stiles had on his hip petted, gentle and soothing. The one in his ass lingered, pressing almost cruelly against his prostate, drawing out the orgasm, making Peter moan in surprise and thrash a bit. 

“Too much?” Stiles teased, longing to dig his teeth into Peter’s neck and drag down, to leave a mark.

Peter didn’t respond, still twitching through, and Stiles drew back regretfully, his fingers popping loose. He climbed off Peter, turned him gently from his back, so he was staring blankly at the ceiling, stomach and thighs trembling. It was a good look on him. Stiles licked his lips hungrily.

“You,” Peter said, catching the motion, “are a _menace._ ” 

Stiles smirked. “You loved it,” he observed, still stroking his hip, gentling him through to the afterglow. 

“Oh, I never denied that,” Peter said, and his voice, which should have been haughty, or mocking perhaps, was devastatingly genuine. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat for some reason, and it took him a moment of avoiding eye contact to be able to breath again. His gaze lingered on Peter’s stomach, streaked with some of his come, though most of it was on the sheets Stiles had rolled him off of. 

A hand caught his face, tilted his chin. Peter’s touch was tentative, almost wary, but his eyes were sparking that electric blue again. It made Stiles’ heart speed up, made him _want_ the claws to come out, just a bit. Peter smirked, like he knew, and dragged his other hand through the remnants of a mess. “Do you want to try?”

A part of Stiles wanted to splutter and protest—why would he want to _try_ —but his words, the pictures he’d painted, the confession he’d given in his distraction with the way he was _getting to Peter_ made it rather pointless. He _did_ want to try, he was curious, and he’d already written it off as something he’d only be able to attempt with a long term partner. But werewolves couldn’t get or transmit STI’s, which meant it was perfectly safe for Stiles to lean in, to draw Peter’s fingers into his mouth and suck off his essence.

“Jesus,” Peter breathed reverently. His eyes were dark, hungry, and when Stiles drew back to see what he was on about, Peter drug his fingers through the dregs and _shoved them_ at Stiles’ face. Come smeared on his cheek, more on his lips, and Stiles couldn’t help but let out a startled laugh. 

Peter looked a _bit_ embarrassed, though mostly petulant, as Stiles came down from his amusement. “Calm down, Peter, I _like_ the way you taste. I won’t be wasting any of this.” As if to emphasize his point Stiles licked his lips clean, savoring the taste as much as the look in Peter’s eye.

Broad hands clasped over his hips, and it made Stiles feel small but not _vulnerable,_ not like most things did in this body. Stiles was sure Peter’s hands would feel just as big, just as warm and strong, were he in his own body.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” the man breathed like a sordid confession. 

Stiles quirked a brow as he sucked a finger down pointedly, pulling back to say, “I think I have _some_ idea.”

Peter smiled at that, and the expression was beautifully genuine. Peter very rarely gave honest smiles, but this one wrinkled the edges of his blue eyes and made Stiles feel a bit like the air had been kicked out of him. His pulse sped; Peter’s smile gentled even more. “You are, without doubt, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. And while I’d love to take care of that,” he pressed down, and when had his fingers gotten _there?_ , to where Stiles’ core was hot and tight, “I’d rather fuck you for the first time in a body you don’t hate.”

_Oh._

Stiles blinked at Peter. Something in him was almost _purring_ at that, at the way it was phrased more than anything. Peter hadn’t said he would rather fuck Stiles as a boy or use his ass than his pussy, he had said that he’d rather Stiles was comfortable. He could do _without_ the man touching over his arousal, but it was Peter, and Stiles had been, albeit unconsciously, grinding against his leg as he sucked off his fingers.

“Pretty cocky,” he said, but it was weak. Blue eyes were soft on him, making his heart do that weird stutter-start thing, and Peter seemed to know he had him. “You seem to take being fucked so well that it would almost be a shame.”

Peter blinked at that, then huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

Stiles’ look of surprise must have been obvious. Had Peter only _topped_ in the past?

“The Hales were traditional, and it was the early 2000's. I might have rebelled against my pack, but you’d be my first man, Stiles,” he said lightly, like it didn’t matter.

Stiles shivered. His first thought was that, regardless of his body, Peter always acknowledged Stiles was a boy. A _man_. His second was what he normally thought when homophobia was inferred—his ‘let’s fuck in front of them, then,’ instincts were tingling. But suggesting they deface the Hale graves was pretty tasteless, so maybe not.

“Kissing you, however,” Peter purred, drawing back his attention. “Need we wait on that?” 

“You want to taste yourself on my tongue?” 

“Want to taste _you_ ,” Peter growled out, and when Stiles pressed forward, he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well.
> 
> That happened.


End file.
